


I Ache For You

by rubygirl29



Series: The Boxer Series [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has been in love more than he's been loved, and it's always ended badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Ache For You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight trigger warning for a reference to non-con in Clint's past. Not explicit, but you've been cautioned.
> 
> Disclaimer: Ben Lee owns the lyrics, Marvel owns the characters. I own only my words.

_In the rain walking slowly_  
There's a light in your apartment  
I don't know why, I ache for you 

_And it's alright if you're undecided or_  
If you're scared that you might like it or  
If it's true, I ache for you. 

 

Clint has been in love more than he's been loved, and it's always ended badly. He wonders if there is something broken in him that makes him easy to discard. The only person who loved him unconditionally was his mother, and even she hadn't loved him enough to take him and Barney away from the drunken, abusive brute she had married. 

In his carnival years, he loved Trickshot and Swordsman. Trickshot taught him to use his gifts -- his eyesight and steady aim -- and maybe Clint had a crush on him because he was the only person who had looked at him like he had some worth -- even if that worth was measured by what audiences were willing to pay to see the act. The Swordsman had taught him to fight, to used edged weapons, to think and strategize. Clint wasn't sure why, but he loved the challenge and he loved Duquesne in a a dark, twisted way that the Swordsman used against him to reward or punish him. Clint took it all; the knowledge and the weapon of a body that Duquesne had honed to his purpose, and he thought maybe _this_ was okay. He offered it and Duquesne took it. It was Clint's first sexual experience and it was a dark tangle of pain, shame and desire that he though was love but turned out to be nothing but a brutal betrayal. 

Broken in body and spirit, he left everything behind him and ran to New York. 9/11 happened and he got so mad he enlisted in the Army. The recruiter, salivating over his skill-set directed him to Special Forces, by-passing everything but basic training. He stayed in Afghanistan for one tour. Then sick of war and deciding the fight was going nowhere fast, he took an honorable discharge and came back as a vet with scars and skills that the criminal element seemed to find irresistible. Clint brought a new bow. Instead of working for the criminals, he started killing them off ... not the smartest move, but he figured it was better than a crime spree. 

He fell in with Natasha after a bloody bar fight. She bandaged his arm up, cursed at him in Russian, and they spent the night in a cheap motel with an expensive bottle of liquor. Natasha, with her fiery hair and sweet body was everything -- soft in his arms, brutal in their fights, with a mind as bright as her hair and as and deadly as her nickname. She taught him how to hide in plain sight, how to fit into different social milieus, how to spy and how to kill. When Clint told her he might love her, Natasha had said, "Love is for children. Sex is a drug and love is a just another weapon. Grow up." When Natasha left him bleeding in the rain it wasn't as much of a betrayal as an inevitability. 

Then there is Phil. He doesn't know what to make of Phil Coulson. He really doesn't. He's not sure he deserves what Phil is offering him; a job, a life, a future. Yeah, there is all that, and Clint understands that maybe he has some limited value to S.H.I.E.L.D. as long as he can hit a target every time. Back in the circus, Trickshot had called him "Hawkeye," the archer who never misses. That was a joke compared to what he does now. If he misses, people fucking _die_ , if he misses, it could be Coulson who is bleeding out. 

He will do anything to keep that from happening. He tells himself it's called _loyalty_ , but what it is, is really love. Clint isn't willing to admit that just yet, not even to himself, because seriously, what are the odds that Phillip J. Coulson, agent extraordinaire, Oxford graduate, Dolce suits and all, would care about Clinton Francis Barton? 

Kisses were good, but they weren't a declaration of love. Natasha had taught him that, and had taught him to be careful with his heart because it can only be ripped apart so much before it can't be fixed.

^*^*^*^*^*^*  
Belgrade is a sloppy, dreary, frigid place. Clint, with his weather issues, is miserable and depressed. Natasha is snappy and ill-tempered and Phil is on his first op since finishing PT on his broken ankle. They are not at their best.

The op starts out as a comedy of errors and ends up with Clint falling off a roof -- though he will say he only fell because the criminal element lobbed a grenade that took out the supports. That will come later. Now, he's lying bleeding on a pile of rubble and staring up the long muzzle of a rifle pointed at his head. He holds up his hands. "Okay, you got me. Now what?" The next thing he knows, the butt of the rifle is coming at him ... then, nothing. 

When he comes to, he's tied up, and from testing the knots, by somebody who knows how to do it. His body aches, but he fell off a building and it's _fucking_ cold wherever he is, and worst, he's blindfolded. 

Clint isn't afraid of much, but not being able to see terrifies him. There is no light leaking through the edges of the blindfold, but that might mean he's in a dark room, or it's night, or the guy who tied the ropes is equally adept at blindfolds. Not knowing is worse than splinters under his nails -- and, yeah, he's been through that, too. 

He's a sniper. He can wait. He breathes slowly, sinking into the darkness, feeling his pulse slow from its panicked beat and the tension slowly leak from his body. He doesn't feel any soreness that would indicate they know about the locator chip embedded in his abdomen, so help should be on the way once S.H.I.E.L.D. figures out that he's not buried in the rubble of the collapsed building. All he has to do is breathe. 

His head hurts. He's dehydrated. He has lost the passage of time with the perception of light and dark. He is starting to feel the aches and bruises from his fall; the stiffness in his muscles and the way his chest hurts. The cold seeps up from the floor and he starts shivering, which makes his head hurt more.By now, S.H.I.E.L.D. has to know that he's not in the rubble. He wants to open his eyes to Coulson telling him he's an idiot. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It takes longer than it should, but finally they find him; Natasha, Coulson, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. strike team. By then, he's shaking, sick, and on the verge of a breakdown. He doesn't remember this. 

He vaguely remembers the flight home, the looks on Natasha's and Phil's faces, the way Phil _doesn't_ say he's an idiot, the medics frantically starting IVs and putting hot packs at his armpits and groin. He doesn't remember much else until the wakes up in medical with Natasha and Phil, both looking exhausted, sitting at his bedside. 

He turns his head towards Phil. "What took you so long?" His voice sounds like he's been swallowing sandpaper. 

"You were in a shielded facility. It took time to find your signal." 

Natasha holds a glass of water and a straw to his lips. "What happened to the guys holding me?"

She lifts a brow. "Do you need to ask?" He doesn't not really. He only wanted confirmation. "You should sleep," she says and kisses his forehead. He doesn't know why he wants to cry.

Phil leans against the wall, watching, until Natasha leaves, then he moves closer. "The doctors say you'll be out tomorrow."

"Can't you get me out of here now? Tell them you need my mission report?" 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Barton." Phil's eyes are soft with laughter and maybe concern. "Meanwhile, enjoy the rest."

"Don't I get a kiss on my forehead or something?"

"Not tonight." Coulson's fingertips brush his, which is enough contact for now. Phil leaves after that and Clint decides he's had enough of being horizontal with no rewards. He presses the call buzzer and waits for his nurse. He can talk his way out of this, flutter his eyelashes, smile sweetly ... and hope Natasha hasn't already put the fear of the Black Widow in their hearts. 

After reading his discharge orders and forging the doctor’s signature, Clint gets dressed and walks out of medical without anybody stopping him. He strolls confidently past the weekend subs, not the regular staff, waving his discharge papers. Fury will be on him for his stunt, but he’ll take a second look at the medical facility security protocols, and come down harder on the staff for not giving the weekenders fair warning of his agents dislike of staying in medical one second longer than necessary. 

If Clint needed to stay longer, he would have, but he feels fine -- well, almost fine -- just a little shaky and sore. He could go to his quarters, but then he'd be found out and kindly escorted back to medical, probably by Tasha -- just what he doesn't need. Coulson's apartment is six blocks. He can do six blocks easy, can't he?

He stops long enough to grab a field jacket and uses the ducts to make his way to the garage. There is a light mist falling, but it's okay. He shoves his hands into his pocket and starts walking. He does the first three blocks easy, by the fourth he's feeling the tug of fatigue in his muscles. The fifth is more like a slog than a walk. The sixth is only worth the effort because it leads to Coulson. He rides the elevator up to the seventh floor and pauses his hand raised to knock. He doesn't have the chance. The door opens.

"Natasha thinks you need some cognitive readjustment," Phil says, reaching out for him with one hand and pulling him into the apartment. "You're an idiot, Agent Barton."

"Yes, sir. I am." He feels dizzy, reckless. He can't think straight, and Phil is standing there, the collar of his shirt open showing the column of his throat, the sleeves casually rolled up. He looks rumpled, comfortable, and Clint wants to sink into him. 

His eyes have a faint crinkle of worry at the corners that Clint doesn't dare think that might be for him. "Don't you ever get tired of showing up on my doorstep in the rain?"

"Guess not." Clint tries to smile, but he can't look away from the pulse throbbing in Phil's throat. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Aside from sounding like a really bad idea given that you're about to pass out, you know I don't." There is a hint of frustration in Phil's voice.

"I won't pass out," Clint argues. He doesn't make any attempt to back out of the apartment; he doesn't think he's capable of that much movement. He sighs and lets Phil wrap an arm around his waist, walking him inside. 

The couch is familiar, comfortable. Clint sinks into it with a sigh. Maybe leaving medical wasn't the best idea he's ever had, but this is so much better than the white, impersonal room that has nightmares in the corners. 

"You should eat something," Phil says. It's logical, of course, but Clint feels a curl of warmth in his chest because that kind of care has been absent in his life. 

"You have food?"

"I have been known to eat," Phil says, slightly offended. "I ordered lasagna from Mama Leone's."

Clint opens his eyes and smiles. "I could eat." He pushes himself off the couch and stretches, wincing. "Mind if I shower first?"

"You know where the towels are." The tips of Phil's ears pink up. Clint thought he was done with falling in love, but apparently not. He looks hopelessly at Phil's back and beats a retreat to the bathroom, hoping distance will help him regain some perspective. 

If not perspective, at least the shower makes him feel a little less wilted. He dresses again, runs his finger through his damp hair and walks barefoot to stand in the kitchen doorway. Phil is slicing Italian bread, and there is a bottle of Chianti and two glasses on the counter. Clint pours the wine and inhales the heady, rich aroma. "That's good."

They sit at Phil's small table and eat the lasagna and drink wine. Phil relaxes again, and Clint tells him stories about life with the carnival -- not the darkness, but the light. The glitter and the wonder that he felt as a boy before The Swordsman perverted it, and Trickshot exploited it. Phil tells him about his first days as an agent with Fury as his handler, which Clint finds slightly terrifying to consider. 

It's comfortable, easy, almost like a really great first date, and Clint finds himself lulled into that daydream until Coulson looks at him and asks, "Why are you here?"

His voice is soft, but Clint feels the question like a kick in the gut. He sets down his wineglass. "I should leave."

"I can't let you do that," Coulson says calmly. "As your handler, I can't let you put yourself in harm's way due to your physical or mental condition."

"So now I'm crazy?"

"Damn it, Barton! That's not what I said. Will you _listen_ to me instead of hearing what you think I'm saying?" His hand wraps around Clint's wrist. "Talk to me."

Clint pulls away, unable to bear even the suggestion of being held against his will. He turns his back and stands by the long window. The panes are streaked with rain and the edges are blurred with condensation reminding him that the temperature is dropping. 

Phil stands next to him, not touching him, but Clint can feel his warmth, see their breath misting on the window glass. Clint draws a finger across the moisture from their mingled breaths. 

Phil takes his hand and kisses his moist fingertips. The shock jolts through Clint. His eyes meet Phil's, wide and unguarded. "Is this what you want?" he whispers.

"I want you to trust me."

"I trust you with my life."

"Then tell me why you came here."

Clint pulls him over to the couch. They sit, bodies touching. Clint sighs. "I didn't have anywhere else I wanted to be but with you."

"Why?"

"Because when I'm not with you, I ache. I hurt _all_ the time, but with you, it's less. I don't feel so fucked up and lost. I needed ... you." He's frustrated and embarrassed by his weakness. He has never told anybody about the emptiness and despair that dogs his past; not even Natasha. He's told her about betrayal and grief, but not about the Swordsman and what he did to Clint. 

"Oh." Phil says, lost for words, which hardly ever happens. "How can I help?"

"Like this," Clint leans in and kisses Phil. He tastes like the wine, like berries and cinnamon. He chases the taste deeper, loving the sound Phil makes that is something between a gasp and a moan. He kisses the corner of Phil's mouth where the lines form a bracket around his smile. "Just let me stay, please."

"I can do that," Phil says. "As long as you want to."

Clint thinks he could stay forever, but that's nothing but a pipe dream. "Okay," he says and pulls Phil into another kiss, knowing this time, he won't draw away. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
They make quick, hurried love on the couch, hand jobs and friction bringing themselves to a messy and ecstatic orgasm. In the bedroom, they take their time; learning each other's bodies, how to touch, kiss, tongue. 

Phil tastes like seawater, salty and slightly bitter on Clint's tongue. When they kiss, he can taste his own come mingling with Phil's. It's exotic and intoxicating. Phil's body is too muscular to be wiry, but there's no fat on him. He has old scars and new, rough and intriguing under Clint's palms. Someday, he'll ask Phil about them and listen to his stories, but for now, he wants to lose himself in Phil's body, bury himself in it. He looks down into Phil's blown, blue eyes. "Can I ... will you let me?"

"Yes." 

"Do you have ...?"

Of course, he did. Unopened and sealed, but in his bedside table. Clint grins. "Are you a Boy Scout or something?"

"I had hopes," Coulson grins back and Clint laughs out of sheer joy. Then he's cool and slick, and God, how talented were Coulson's damn fingers? 

He has a few tricks of his own that reduce Phil to writhing, panting need. When he's ready, open for Clint, he pushes in to be surrounded by heat and muscle. Nothing has felt like this. Clint sinks in deeper, pauses and looks down at Phil. He is flushed, his eyelids are weighted with lust, his mouth slack and wanton. 

If Phil looks like that, then Clint wonders what he looks like; overwhelmed and _feeling_ everything, nerves, breath, pulse. Phil gives him a brief nod and Clint withdraws and thrusts back into Phil, building a rhythm, rocking them both to climax. Clint cries out roughly as Phil's come spreads wetly across his belly. 

Clint collapses over Phil, the waves of orgasm receding until his cock is limp. He slides from Phil's body reluctantly. Phil releases Clint's arms with a sigh. "So, you'll stay?"

Clint laughs softly. "I couldn't leave if I wanted to, and God, I don't."

"Good." Phil leaves the bed and returns with a warm washcloth and towel. They clean up, kissing and nibbling as they do, and then curl up with Clint spooning Phil like he's done it all his life. It feels right, and the ache is gone with the emptiness. 

There is rain beating on the windows and a wind rising outside, but Clint feels safe.   
**End**


End file.
